


In the Mirror - Part One

by Lilysmum



Category: The Killing
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-05 05:14:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4167306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilysmum/pseuds/Lilysmum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season 2 Episode 11 - Linden and Holder take a little break in between talking to Gwen and going to the casino.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Mirror - Part One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oppressa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oppressa/gifts).



> Written for my fabulous friend who not only came up with the original idea and the two key lines, and I even had the nerve to ask her for a beta read too...

Things were finally looking up. It appeared that they were actually going to get some help, for a change.

“Okay,” Linden is saying into her phone, nodding her head, “Let me know as soon as…yeah, thanks.”

She snaps her phone shut with a little more force than is necessary, and turns to Holder with a cautious grin.

“She thinks he’ll do it,” she tells him, and he nods, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his guts.

Richmond’s tough little girlfriend is going to lean on her old man to get them the warrant they’d never be able to get on their own. Good on Linden, somehow she’d known to appeal to Gwen’s sense of decency, and it worked.

“Good,” he tells Linden, and sighs hugely, leaning his head back against his seat’s headrest, closing his eyes for a second. He’s happy, he really is. It’s just that the thought of going back into that god’s cursed casino has the opposite effect on his battered body.

He turns his head to check on Linden, and watches her sigh as well, shake her head and then actually lean over towards him and rest her forehead against his shoulder. The waves of relief coming off her small tense body are palpable. She uses both hands to squeeze his forearm through the damp sleeve of his jacket, holds on for a second.

“We’re going back in there,” Linden’s telling him grimly, sitting upright again, “We’re going to find that key card. Holder, they’re gonna be toast.”

There’s that light in her eyes, a spark, he’s seen it before when she’s picked up the scent, when she’s on the trail of something.

Holder nods again, he can feel her energy, it’s contagious, and as always it exhilarates him.

A federal warrant, FBI, dozens of personnel. They’re going after a mayor, a millionaire developer, top cops, a city councilman and an Indian chief. This is big time. He thinks back to a conversation he had not so long ago with that fucker Gil. About how guys like Richmond never pay. Adrenaline zips up his spine when he thinks about sticking it to that bunch of scumbags. He had never imagined that he would ever be involved in anything as big as this.

But that’s not the reason for his lightheaded sense of relief. The bigger thing, the thing that’s really got him going, is that he knows she’s fine. Linden’s okay. And that fact makes him happier than any lousy search warrant ever could.

She’d refused to get out of the car, last night. This was after he had finally convinced buddy to get her released from the psyche ward. She hadn’t wanted to go to her hotel, or to his place, or anywhere else.

She’d asked him in the smallest voice to ‘please just drive’. When he pulled out of the parking lot of the hospital she was asleep almost instantly, but not in a good way. Not in a way that made him feel any better about the situation. She kept jolting awake with this frantic look in her eyes. She woke up when he stopped for lights, she woke up when he changed lanes, hell she woke up if he so much as _looked_ at her. Finally he reached over and gave her his hand, palm up, to hold. She grabbed it with both of hers and held on tight.

“You’re okay, Linden,” he told her, “Go to sleep. I’m here.”

It was not very fucking creative but it was the only thing he could think of to say. He made a game out of it then, driving like an old lady, just gliding, mapping out a route in advance to avoid traffic lights. She passed out for real then, he had been able to feel it when she left planet earth, her hold on his hand slackening and her body sinking into the seat.

He drove until he couldn’t anymore, until he was dangerously close to joining her in Z-Land himself, and then pulled into a parking lot, gently easing his hand out of her soft grip so that he could park. He fell asleep watching her while his eyes glazed over and closed, and she was the first thing he saw this morning when he woke up, cold and stiff, to the sound of rain. She hadn’t even budged when he sneaked out of the car to piss and get coffees.

Even then he was still wondering if he hadn’t made a big mistake. She was out of the car and smoking like an old rummy when he came back, and the first words out of her mouth were about the fucking _case_. But it only threw him off until he watched her in action. A hit of nicotine and a little caffeine and the girl was back. She’s focussed, she’s controlled. She’s totally on her game. It takes more than a wack on the head and a syringe full of psychotropic meds to slow this one down for long.

It’s how she copes. He more than understands it. She needs it. It’s how she gets herself back. And he knows now he can call it by whatever name he wants, it’s just the way she is and he has decided to respect it. Hell, there’s worse things she could be doing than sticking up for murder victims and taking on a whole fucking corrupt city government not to mention a bloodthirsty bitch like the Chief. As long as he makes sure she doesn’t go in too far, she’ll be fine, and he’s all over that, anyway. He has to dig deep to keep up with it but he also knows that he’s never felt like this before, like he’s a part of something, something big. He’s not exactly sure what that something is, but it ain’t just the case, not anymore. He’s embarrassed to think that it was not that long ago that he had actually thought he wanted to work this case alone.

Holder starts the car, puts it in gear.

“What now Boss?” he asks her, they have time to kill, a rare luxury, and he doesn’t want to hazard a guess as to how Linden will suggest they spend it.

Linden checks her watch and looks down at herself.

“Well I’ve had this sweater on for I think four days now…” she begins.

“I’m aware of that fact, yeah.” He replies, he knows she’s right, it’s the same brown one she put on the morning after she slept at his place with her son. About a million years ago.

Linden wrinkles her nose in disgust.

“I smell like a sheep,” she tells him.

“Well I wouldn’t go that far…” he says with a smirk. Damp wool and woman body heat is an okay combo if you ask him.

“I do,” she says, “I smell like a sheep that smokes cigarettes.”

“Those are the only kind of sheep I hang with, Linden. Y’know. The cool ones.”

He allows himself to shoot her a grin because he’s happy. Maybe she is going to actually take that break he wanted her to when they woke up in his damned car this morning. And if she takes one, that means he can too…

“Let’s go by my hotel,” Linden instructs him although maybe she hadn’t needed to, he’s gotten them halfway there already, whether by chance or by instinct, he’s not sure.

“See, Linden,” he tells her, resisting the urge to nudge over towards her, “I knew that’s what you were gonna say…”

“Oh did you now,” Linden counters, looks at him and then away, out the window.

“You and me Linden? We’re in sync.”

“Is that right.” She’s smiling now, trying not to, but doing it all the same.

“We’re on our own _wavelength_ , Linden.”

“Okay Holder. I believe you. Now stop.”

But it’s Linden that can’t stop. Smiling, that is. So he does, so as not to push his luck, and gets serious.

“You gonna grab that forty winks at last?” he asks her, after a minute, and he means it, lets it show in his voice, “Even superheroes need naptime Linden…”

“What?” Linden looks at him like he’s crazy, “No, Holder. But a shower, yeah, a shower for sure.” She leans her head back in her seat, “Mmmm, and let’s eat. Let’s get some real food.”

Yup, things were definitely looking up.

“Fine by me,” Holder agrees, “How long d’ya need?” he asks as he pulls up in front of her hotel, “Hour? Hour and a half? I can come back with some grub. We’re still in time for McBreakfast.”

“Fifteen minutes, Holder,” Linden tells him, and side eyes him, as if he should know this already. He knows he really should, as well. It’s one of his favourite things about Linden, her lack of attention to meaningless shit.

“Just come up,” she tells him, “Just come up and wait for me, I’ll be quick. We can go someplace to eat. Sit someplace, you know. With actual plates. I’ll pay.”

 

He tries to chill when she’s in the shower but it’s impossible. There’s something in the air, or just in his brain maybe, he can’t decide. Something that wasn’t there before. At first he thought it was just the tension of waiting for what was probably going to happen in the next couple of hours, but no, it’s something else. Something totally unrelated to the case, a thread that has managed to weave itself right into the fabric of his reality.

Linden stripped off her sheep-smelling sweater right in front of him and tossed it aside, revealing a grey t-shirt. She held out her phone to him, seriously looking at him as if she was handing him the Bat Phone or something.

“Answer if it rings,” she told him, “Gwen said it shouldn’t be long.”

Her phone is in his right front pocket. He can feel it as it lays there now, like a snake, curled up, waiting to strike.

He sits on the end of the bed, scrolling through the on-screen TV guide, but can’t even concentrate enough to read what’s on. He turns the damn thing off and tosses the remote, looking around for something to read but finds nothing but the room service menu and a days-old newspaper. He can’t seem to make himself sit still, he’s got the jiggle-leg thing going on, paces around a bit to deal with that, and then finally ends up choosing the bed that’s farthest from the bathroom. He flops down, arms behind his head, and stares up at the ceiling, which is even worse. His stomach is as ache-empty as it’s ever been, but not even the thought of an actual real cooked meal is doing it for him now.

He’s tired, tired right down into his bones. Even a ten minute power nap would help him out. But he’s not sleepy, even if they had the time, he’s beyond it. He needs to eat and he needs to shower and he needs to get his rocks off before he will be able to sleep. With a shake of his head he sighs and half-wishes he had just dropped Linden off and gone home where the whole situation would be easier to deal with.

There’s no escaping the sound of Linden in the shower, that’s his real problem.

She’s left the bathroom door part way open and he can hear everything. The shower curtain rings skittering across the overhead rod when she steps in. The water turning on, and the variations in the sound of the spray, when she moves under it, when it hits her.

He keeps thinking about her leaning her head against his arm in the car, and the way she’d grasped his wrist, the smile, her saying she’d pay when they went to eat. Is he crazy to think something’s different? Of course he is, he’s being an idiot. She’s still in love with the other guy, he saw how she looked at him last night when she thought he was there for her. Just because she’s gotten a little loose around him and is obviously comfortable with him being here now doesn’t mean anything.

It’s not her, he keeps telling himself. It’s him. Him and the stupid state he has ended up in due to stress and sleep-deprivation and…shit, they just work together is all. Spend all their time together at the moment, by necessity. It’s only natural this stuff would come into his head sometimes. He just needs to think about something else.

Except that there is nothing else, really, and for a while now there hasn’t been.

He feels the humidity rising in the room as steam escapes through the half-open bathroom door and he can’t resist breathing it in, as much as he can, the warm damp smell of shampoo and wet skin and hair and yeah he is definitely crazy. He can’t close his eyes and he can’t slow his breathing and he’s already got a semi so he decides to get up and go out for a smoke. But then he hears the shower shut off and he’s frozen in place. There go the shower curtain rings again. She’s saying something to him that he can’t hear over the sound of his own heart pumping and he sits up like he’s been stung, swings his legs over the far side of the bed and knows that she is standing outside the tub now, towelling off. With a deep breath he sits on his hands and stares out the window and tells himself to Stop. Fucking. Thinking.

True to her word Linden is quick. He has sorted himself out and has just turned around to look for his smokes when she comes out of the bathroom. He looks away as quick as he can but still gets a flash of skin. Lots of skin. Plus a tiny amount of white fabric, just bra and briefs. And long wet hair, she’s running through it with a giant plastic comb.

Holder stares straight ahead, looking out the window like he’s been caught. He knows that she saw him look away. She’s standing still, he can hear it, and he can feel her eyes on him.

“You’re allowed to look at me Holder.” She says simply, her voice almost reproachful.

A wave of dizziness washes over him.

“I wasn’t trying to look at you Linden,” he tells her, without turning around, and he can’t help it but he knows he sounds more pissed off than grateful, which is what he would be, if he could even fucking think.

Now he hears the sound of her bare feet padding across the carpet.

“I said you can,” she tells him, and pauses, hesitates, lowers her voice, “I want you to,” she says now, it’s just a whisper and god it sounds like she is making a wish.

And so he turns, and then stands up to face her, and see her properly. And he looks. And looks.

Her hair is combed out long and straight, still dripping a little at the ends. Her face is soft and scrubbed clean, pale pink mouth, sandy eyelashes. She looks tired, there’s little smudgy circles under her eyes, tiny fine lines on her forehead.

He is set upon by the freckles. There’re everywhere, tiny, and delicate. Like she’s been sprinkled. Damp skin, flushed pastel here and there from the hot water. She needn’t have bothered with the bra and panties, he can see right through them without even using his x-ray vision. She’s holding the huge comb in one hand and yet another bulky brown sweater in the other. And she just stands there, not moving a muscle, letting him look.

Great shoulders, strong, and good firm arms with small wrists. Her breasts look slightly heavier, more substantial than he thought they’d be and they’re perfectly shaped, exactly the same size. Her stomach is tight and her waist is small, she’s thin but she’s curvy, and he already knew she had those slender yet muscular legs. She’s tiny, he can see some bones, hips, kneecaps, collarbones. But she’s not delicate, he knows, there’s steel inside her, she’s mighty, she’s tough, she’s relentless.

He feels a little guilty that it takes him this long to get back to her face. Her expression is slightly perplexed, he decides, and before he realizes it he feels himself start to smile involuntarily, but reigns it in.

“What?” Linden asks him, shifts her feet a little, and then she is looking more amused than puzzled – he guesses she has figured out he likes what he sees.

“C’mere,” Holder tells her, and indicates the spot on the carpet in front of him, “Come and stand right here.”

Linden walks over, stands in front of him and he gets his first feel of her skin as he grasps her shoulders and has her turn around, to stand with her back to him. Their reflection is right in front of them, the hotel’s full-length mirror framing them perfectly, a portrait.

He smells shampoo and toothpaste, feels warmth coming off her skin. The top of her head barely makes it up to his chin, and she stands up on tiptoe for a second, brushing against the front of him when she does so, trying to equalize their heights to no avail. In the periphery he sees a bruise on her hip, showing through thin fabric. Must have been where they shot her up. He stops himself from reaching down to touch it, to ask her if it hurts.

“That’s what,” he tells her, and when she turns her head to look back at him he motions back to the mirror with his eyes. He doesn’t expect her to acknowledge how fucking gorgeous she is, but he wants her to see it, anyway. “Look in the mirror,” he tells her.

Linden complies with his request and he watches her reflection sweep its cool practiced eyes over the image of the two of them. Starting at the top, working down from there, a zig-zag pattern, side to side, evaluating, assessing.

She’s small and light, she’s luminous, outlined starkly against his form, but she’s colours, too, blue, gold, pink, white. He doesn’t even see himself at first, tall and dark behind her, he’s the backdrop, almost monolithic. The only skin visible are his face and hands, and he’s looking rough, still. His face is pale and bruised around his eye. His ear is still messed up and the cut on his temple looks gross. He knows she will have taken in all of this, and more.

Her eyes find their way back to his.

“What do you see?” Holder asks, her, finally.

Linden doesn’t move her eyes from his. He feels muscles and tendons shift under his hands as she shrugs her shoulders. She’s thinking, purses her lips for a second.

“Us,” she tells him at last.

So he’s not crazy, then.

“What’re you startin’ Linden?” he asks now, although he is pretty sure she is not just having a moment.

“I don’t know. I just feel like something’s different.”

“No shit.”

Holder shifts his hand, runs his finger over one of the bra straps and then down and across the soft skin of her shoulder. Speckles, like cinnamon. Tiny goose bumps. She shivers.

And then he has to let go of her because Linden is turning around and reaching up behind his neck, and she’s pulling him down at the same time as she stands back up on her toes to meet him. She’s pressing all that skin right up against him and his dick has given up any pretense of good behaviour now. There are about a million fucking things occurring to him at once but he doesn’t have time to think about any of them because he’s never seen her face this close up before and her eyes are extra blue today and he swears he can see her pupils dilate. Her mouth is just right there and he knows she’s going to kiss him in about one second and it’s not fair she brushed her teeth and he didn’t and his ribs are busted and his whole body is bruised and he is probably going to look terrible if he takes his clothes off and oh yeah he doesn’t even have a condom if it comes to that.

But he actually doesn’t really care about any of it though because somehow he knows it’s going to turn out alright anyway. Holder has just gotten his hands back on her now down near her waist when Linden’s phone goes off in his pocket like a land mine.

Holder steps back and curses and pulls the thing out of his pants.

His hand is shaking when he holds it out to Linden. The phone vibrates in his palm like a living thing. He would love to pitch it right out through the window, and he thinks he will if she doesn’t take it out of his hand extremely fucking soon.

Linden looks at the phone for a second like she has forgotten what it is. She stares back up at him with a look of wonder and indecision. She can’t believe it either, he sees.

Holder extends his hand out further, and watches as she takes the thing and flips it open.

“Detective Linden.”

Her voice is all business and suddenly so is everything else.

Holder turns and resumes the search for his cigarettes, finds them in his jacket when he puts it back on.

He hears Linden snap the phone shut just as he reaches for the doorknob, looks back over his shoulder.

Linden’s putting on the sweater.

“Okay,” she tells him, “You just have to talk to the judge.”

He sticks a butt in his mouth, pulls out his lighter. “Five minutes?”

“Less,” Linden answers, bending down, pulling on jeans.

He’s ducking out the door when she calls him back. She grabs his jacket, slides her hand up inside his sleeve, and grasps his forearm.

“To be continued?” she asks.

“Hell yeah.”

He escapes out into the hallway, beats it outside and tries to turn his mind back to the case.

Murders. Beatings. Lies. Falsified evidence. Obstruction of justice. Federal warrants. Break-ins. Frame-ups.

His legs are shaking and he really, really needs to smoke this cigarette.

Us.


End file.
